Valtyr WarchoL
Valtyr WarchoL was a pig farmer. His ambitions were to keep the herd alive, not starve during the winter, grow his and his adoptive fathers land by a few acers, and get married. He had so far been successful in the first two, had a plan for the third, and was losing hope in the fourth. He had no idea how old he was, as a foundling his birthday was neither known nor cared about. Valtyr’s adoptive father Rollo Cosgrave had not allowed him to share his surname but in all other respects had been a kind and generous caretaker. The surname Valtyr carries now means “adolescent pig” in the dialect of the region he grew up in, and started as a nickname given to him by the local villagers in his youth. The closest village to his homestead was Vania, small and remote most of the people of the Kingdom of Vinland, the nation of his birth, were unaware of its existence. Valtyr was well known and at least moderately well liked by those living in Vania. His caretaker Rollo on the other hand had entered village lore as a constant source of curiosity. His name and accent were strange, and his background before coming to the region, young child in tow, was utterly unknown. To add further mystery, as soon as Valtyr had been deemed mature enough to make the half day journey into village on his own, Rollo had never again entered Vania, relying on Valtyr to do all necessary bartering. It had been so long since anyone had seen Rollo in fact, that the common belief around town was the Rollo was in fact dead, a misconception Rollo had instructed Valtyr to encourage without resorting to outright lies. Though Valtyr often wondered at this peculiarity in his caretaker, he had never been able to gleam an explanation for this behavior, receiving only and uncharacteristic cold evasiveness from Rollo when he brought the topic. In spite of this one mystery Valtyr’s life was one of contentment and peace. Then the Jarl arrived. It was the dead of winter a little after midday when Valtyr saw the riders approaching in the distance. They were coming from the direction of town, but even at a distance he could tell they were no one he knew. No one from the village had even seen much less could afford the mail or helmets worn by the riders. Upon seeing the riders, Rollo told him to get the horses and hide in the barn until they could make a break for it and then went and retrieved the axe collecting dust over their mantle place. There were five of them, one carried a banner of a golden yellow dragon rising over a red tower. When they approached they called for Rollo by name, they said he used to be known as the bleeding wolf, they told him someone named Harold had sent them and they were to bring Rollo to him. Rollo accused Harold of not having the balls to come himself and said he would die before they would take him. The fight was brief, Rollo had not fought in years, and his opponents were mounted and wearing armor. Soon he lay bleeding and wheezing on the ground. Valtyr heard the leader of the horse men ordering his subordinates to search the home and barn, they were to find a gold ring inlaid with silver script, and if they found it they were not to touch it. No one but Valtyr saw as the mortally wounded Rollo, wheezing with laughter and pain, slip something on his finger. First Rollo’s wound closed, then his skin began to glow an unnatural color as dark black veins appeared running down his face and hands. Then there was a silent wave of wind, light and a cold heat that knocked Valtyr off his feet drowning his senses in pain. His next coherent thought was that his house was burning and that someone was screaming. The horsemen were dead, their bodies covered in patch work of melting and frozen flesh. Rollo was screaming, being burnt from the inside by a sickly purple flame visible under his now translucent flesh. His screams soon turned to a rasping hiss of air like that of steam rising from boiling water, and then his body just crumbed and fell too cold ash. There were no last words, no imparted wisdom or call to adventure. Rollo was dead, the horses were dead, the farm was on fire, the herd was scatter. Valtyr took the ring, the only thing left in the ashes of what was his father and ran. Within a day they were chasing him, within a week he had taken his first life He had first fled to the village making it their shortly after nightfall. The village was occupied, and in flames. There were many more men, with many more dragon banners. Valtyr guessed most of the villagers were dead, and judging from the noises he heard coming from the building that was once Harvey Manexes inn, he guessed the dead ones were the more fortunate. So he ran into the forest, and soon they were chasing him. At first he assumed he would starve to death, trapped in the forest in winter with no provisions. But then after three days of running he was fortunate when he ambushed a warrior fallowing his trail, catching his opponent by surprise and bashing his head in with a rock, taking what food and tinder he could from the body. He left the man’s axe and spear, not knowing what to do with them and not wishing to weigh himself down as he fled. Not in immediate fear of starving he now figured eventually he would be run down and killed. The snow in the forest was deep and he had no way to cover or hide his trail as he ran. But then the blizzard came covering his tracks. Unable to light a fire Valtyr finally realized he would freeze to death. As he felt his consciousness slipping a thought, surprising himself, came unbidden to his mind. “no…I want to live” . That’s when he saw the old man walking towards him, out of the forest. At first, he thought they had finally caught up with him. Having no weapon, he still prepared to sell his life dear. He laid as still as possible, playing dead, until the man was in arm’s length, and then he lunged. Valtyr never could figure out what happened next, one second he was reaching out to grasp the old man’s throat, the next he was being guided, firmly but not un-gently, to the ground by the old man. Looking up, Valtyr saw the old man clearly for the first time. In spite of his apparent age he stood tall and unbent. He was missing his left eye and his face was lined with scars including a particularly nasty one around his neck. he was dressed entirely in black, carried a spear, and a raven was perched on his shoulder. He was not human. “listen to me” the god said “I have an offer for you.” I will give you a choice. If you give me the ring you have hidden in your pack I will build you a fire, and take you into a nearby town. There you will be able to find work as an indentured laborer and live out the rest of your life in peace, but you will never again be a free man. Conversely you can give me the last of your food and in return I will give you this spear. You may starve to death. You may not. If you live I think you will cause trouble and that would amuse me, but you will have to see to that yourself. If you take the spear I guarantee you your life will be shorter, but you will be free, and who knows maybe you’ll even find retribution on those who have put you here. “ Valtyr knew that the only path back to anything even close to what he thought his life would be would be to give the god the ring. A quite life was all he had ever hoped for. When he had prayed, like all the villagers, he had prayed to the fertility goddess who brought the rain and the spring sun. War gods had only ever been talked about in hushed fearful whispers. He didn’t even consider the offer for a second. Before he had lived a peaceful contented life, that content was gone and into the empty void it left behind had poured a black a powerful rage. A rage those who had taken what he thought his life would be, at Rollo for never sharing his secrets, but mostly at himself for being too damned weak to do anything about it. “Vengeance” he said “I want vengeance” “then take it” the god said leaning in to take the last of Valtyr’s provisions “I’ve got my eye on you. And as long as you fight well, with those who fight well, that will be a good thing.” And with that the old man departed. Valtyr did not die that night, or that year. He was finally able to build a fire and the next day he used the spear to drive a lone wolf from his kill, providing himself with enough meat to stave off hunger. The spear was well built, but bore no sign of it’s other worldly provenance. In the blizzard the men with the dragon banners lost his trail and he made his way to the coast and finally to the city of Havens Cove. There he was able to talk his way into a free company of mercenaries, his tale of strange men in the forest catching their leader Captain Balto. For two years he fought in the company naïve experience slowly giving way to experience. In that time he learned three things. The first, and most important, was that he loved to fight. A discovery that almost made up for everything that had happened, almost. Second, the eye of the god truly was still on him. When he was fighting, in the depths of his battle trance, he could shake of wounds (resist wounds), and help others who had fought well shake them off as well (heal). In this way he could extend the length of battles, a fact he could tell the god was pleased with. But as with all things there was price. Bladed weapons other than his spear, and similar weapons, would fall to rust as soon as he tried wielding them. As such he took to carrying an oaken warclub inlaid with heavy iron studs, for when fighting got particularly close. Finally, he learned the name of his enemy. Jarl Harold Dromgoole, who’s hose livery was that of a golden dragon rising over a red tower, was a powerful member of the high King of Vinlands court. Rumor being that the young king was very much in his sway. No one seemed to have noticed that Vania had been destroyed much less cared. Valtyr did not know what Harold’s history with Rollo was, why Harold wanted the ring, or even what the ring was, but he did know that Harold wanted it badly, and for Valtyr that was a perfect reason to keep it from him. For two years and nine days Valtyr fought with Captain Balto’s free company until two of Harold’s men came to the captain one day seeking a cleric rumored to wear a golden ring on a chain around his neck. Balto helped Valtyr kill the men and then cast him out of the company. Jarl Dromgoole was too powerful an enemy to make for no chance of payment. Following Balto’s advice and using the purse of gold the captain had given him as a parting gift, Valtyr sailed north to the Nation of Skyrim, a land where they spoke the same language as him albite with a strange acent. Their he traveled for a time working as a hired spear, finally falling in with Storm Ravens. Lead by their Jarl Clovis they were departing for the new found land of Astoria. There Valtyr would fight for himself, his Jarl, and the storm ravens. If he was lucky he would gain silver, allies and most of all power, because he planned eventually to go home. To Vinland and as his god as his witness he would not go alone. In his native dialect WarchoL means adolescent pig, but like many names it also has a second meaning. Trouble maker. and he plans to make some trouble for Jarl Dromgoole.